I'VE poured my WINE

سُرمئي دروازي کي کولِ ته جيون ٻولي

This is the Sindhi poem, again on Emily Hauze’s photo I wrote a year back when I was in Quetta.

She had basically attached the following poem to this photo:

“Am I kin to Sorrow,
That so oft
Falls the knocker of my door—
Neither loud nor soft,
But as long accustomed,
Under Sorrow’s hand?
Marigolds around the step
And rosemary stand,
And then comes Sorrow—
And what does Sorrow care
For the rosemary
Or the marigolds there?
Am I kin to Sorrow?
Are we kin?
That so oft upon my door—
Oh, come in!”

~Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)

I was in mood, so I just wrote a poem in Sindhi and shared with her on Facebook the same moment. She replied “Thank you dear Muzamil….I will need to take some time to look up some of the words in your poem… But from what I can understand upon my first reading, you may have captured that spirit even better than the poem I originally shared.” Let me add here that Emily has been to Sindh several times as she loves Sindh selflessly and apart from being a brilliant student of details in other matters of travel, meeting with people, exploring the world of this region, she has learnt Sindhi–counted to be one of the oldest languages in the world–as well and can well understand it. She writes “Amerian Sindhiani” (American Sindhi) with her name.

My poem has its own tone. It offers a world of opportunities–of life–to the one that has his/her door closed for them–for it. And still beyond. This offer can be for the world as well as for the poet:

سُرمئي دروازي کي کولِ ته جيون ٻولي
هر سُر تنهنجي لبڙن جي ٿو چانئٺ ڳولي
رنگ نه سُرمي جهڙو دَرَ تي تو پاتو آ
تنهنجو دردن، تنهائيءَ سان ڪو ناتو آ
در جي پار ته ڪوئي ڪارونڀار سُجهي ٿو
آرِ ته تو لئه گُلڙن جو سنسار ٻُري ٿو
ارمانَ ته رابيلن جي خوشبوءَ ۾ جهومن
جذبا ڏاڙهونءَ گُلَ جا وَرَنَ سنڀاري مهڪن
آءُ ته تو لئه سپنا تڙپيو تڙپن ويٺا
آءُ ته تو لئه لمحا ڌڙڪيو ڌڙڪن ويٺا
هر سُر تنهنجي لبڙن جي ٿو چانئٺ ڳولي
سُرمئي دروازي کي کولِ ته جيون ٻولي

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